I take the deed with the attached survey plan and go outside to look for the boundary. The small creek and the line of trees where the clearing ends, all fits. The house seems to be the one in the deed. I have arrived. That’s a strange feeling. I expected excitement and joy, but instead, I’m feeling rather flat. It’s not the house’s fault. I don’t have a great need for luxury. The house seems to be adequate for my needs.
My gaze wanders from my pile of bags to the dust and the spider webs, the dirty windows, and the still smoking range. It’ll take a lot of work to turn this cabin into a welcoming home.
“Not today.” My voice echoes through the empty house challenging the walls to respond. But nothing disturbs the peacefulness, not even a mouse scuttling into a hiding place. It’s just me. I get up and inspect the bags I brought along. My stomach is rumbling. Somewhere needs to be food. I’m not disappointed. There is a bag with enough apples and peanut-butter sandwiches to feed an army.
I take an apple and am about to sit down again when the distant clatter of hooves stops me in my tracks. I thought I was alone in this wilderness. The sound of a rider unsettles me. I look for a weapon I could defend myself with if need be. It’s not an easy task. In the end, I find an old broom in the laundry. It has to do. I wait at the front door, trying to ignore my racing heart.
From working with dogs in Horace’s vet clinic I know it’s important to show no fear. Not that the rider is a dog, but it could be an unsavory visitor. As he comes closer—it is a he—I try to relax.
The closer the rider comes, the more I try to relax. He’s just a rough looking man in his fifties. A hunter going by the gun tucked into a bag at the side of his saddle. Even without the gun, the thick camouflage green vest over a gray woolen shirt and a floppy hat pushed back from his weathered, suntanned face tells the story of a man who spends his time outdoors.
He sits on his horse as if he was born in the saddle. It tells me he’s good with animals. I take that as a positive sign. He doesn’t dismount but squints at me. I know next to nothing of human nature. Everyone agrees with that. But in the years working with animals in Horace’s clinic, I never went wrong judging a person by the way they are with animals.
This guy is okay. There is no reason to be on tenterhooks. No reason to become best buddies either. He lifts his hand halfway for a greeting and slides sideways off the horse.
“I smelled the smoke. Are you supposed to be here? We don’t take kindly to squatters.”
He takes off his hat and slaps it on his outer thigh. Sunrays create a reddish copper gleam in his brown hair. He’s fairly tall and has an athletic build, but I’m determined his grunting persona will not intimidate me.
“This is my place. How about you?”
“Your place? I know for a fact that Amanda didn’t sell, and they couldn’t find any relatives when she died.”
He sounded pleased with himself as if he’d uncovered a major scam. I can’t falter now, but having a complete stranger questioning me on my property is not going down well with me.
“I’m her niece, but that really is none of your business.” I’m summoning all my energy to transmit that I want him off my land. He seems to get it when I raise my eyebrows because the color is rising on his face.
“This is a rough, unforgiving country. It’s no place for easy-come-easy-go, Hare Krishna, sunshine people. You shouldn’t be here.”
I guess he would see me like a sunshine person with my baggy Bali pants, the thigh-length oversized t-shirt, and the masses of chestnut brown hair piled up on my head, held in place with a handful of colorful hair ties.
Horace often complained that my clothes disguise my delicious figure. Delicious? As if I were the gourmet version of a hot dog… do you want mustard and ketchup to go with that? He never got that a disguise was exactly what I had in mind. Calling my body shape delicious made me cringe.
The stranger looks at me with a frown. Did I allow my mind to wander again?
“Are you policing this part of the woods?”
“No.” He drags out his ‘no’ as if he isn’t sure how official his visit is.
“Then I guess you are trespassing. If you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
“Hold on, Kiddo, it’s my duty to check. We don’t want a forest fire starting because some cocky townspeople don’t know how to deal with a fire in the open.”
“As you can see, no open fire here, only a chimney that hasn’t been used for decades and wood that’s not dry enough. No need for you to worry.” I hope that sends him on his merry way, but I’m mistaken. He steps up to me and holds out his hand.
“Where are my manners? I should have introduced myself. Scott Thompson. My friends call me Scott.” He snorts, amused by his joke, and pulls his hand back when I don’t shake it. “Not that there are that many out here. I’m your neighbor, I live in a cabin two miles up east from you.”
I take a step back. I don’t shake hands. Ever. It has nothing to do with him. It’s self-preservation. Every time I touch another person I see and feel their past. I would be a great success on a gipsy summer
